


PS 3503 

059 C3 

1921 



Copy 1 'he Call of California 

,_-id Other Poems of the West 




iiHiSiilPiiiiiliiililii^ 



THE CALL OF 
CALIFORNIA 

And Other Poems 
of the West 

"By 
FRANCIS BORTON 



FOURTH EDITION 
Revised and Enlarged 



RIVERSIDE :: :: CALIFORNIA 
19 2 1 






Copyright, 1917 and 1921, by 
Francis Borton 



From the 

STUDIO OF CLYDE BROWNE, PRINTER 

Los A n g c I e i 



§)C!,A605772 
FB 16 1921 



SIo llri^tt 



THE CALL OF CALIFORNIA 




HE CALL OF 
CALIFORNIA 

And Other Poems of the West 
'By 

FRANCIS BORTON 



The Call of California 



nHAVE wandered far away, 
Many a long and weary day, 
Through the scenes of which I 
dreamed in days of yore ; 

But I've turned at last to rest 
In the land I love the best. 

And it's California now, — forevermore, 
On the margin of her shining, golden 

shore, 
In the land of birds and blossoms, — ever- 
more. 

CHORUS 

Oh ! my California land. 

Here I pledge my heart and hand. 

For I love but you forever, love you true ; 
With the roses in your hair 
And your lark-songs ev'ry where. 

Underneath your dreamy skies of cloud- 
less blue. 



The Call of California 



From your Missions, old and gray, 
At the crimson close of day 

I can hear the bells a-ringing, soft and 
low; 
While the gay guitar of Spain 
Lends a plaintive, sweet refrain 

From the dim, romantic days of long 
ago, — 
Long ago, long ago, long ago. 

From the Padres and the Dons of long 
ago. 

From Sierras, thunder-riven. 
Shadowy peaks arise to heaven — 

Hooded saints, whose names are bene- 
dicite ; 
From the caiion's purple rim 
Downward rolls their matin hymn 

Over golden-fruited valleys to the sea ; 

To the murm'ring pines beside the shin- 
ing sea. 

Till it mingles with the music of the sea. 

In this sunny land of mine. 
With its honey, oil and wine, 

And its poppy fields aflame with living 
gold; 
In this Eden of the earth 
God is bringing to the birth 

Greater wonders than He wrought in 

days of old; 
In the bold days of old, the days of gold. 
Than He fashioned through the Argo- 
nauts of old. 

(eight) 



other Poems of the West 



We have wealth upon the seas, 
Health in every fragrant breeze. 

Rivers bursting from the mountain's 
cloven crest; 
We have leagues of yellow grain — 
Many a cattle-covered plain 

In this orange-blossom kingdom of the 
West, — 
In the free, unfettered, giant-hearted 
West, — 
'Neath the blue and golden banner of the 
West. 

And it's where I want to be, 
California's calling me 

Here to stay forever, never more to roam; 
Calling me to come and rest 
On her glowing, tawny breast, 

When her fields of bloom are like the 

billow's foam; 
Where the silv'ry olives whisper-welcome 

home; 
While along the hills the doves are call- 
ing — home. 




(nine) 



The Call of California 



At the Old Mission 

©HERE'S a sober hush in these solemn 
woods. 
There's mystery in the air. 
That seems to pour from the caves of death; 
You can feel it everywhere. 

A clear stream brawls through the piney 
dell, 
Where the dove mourns all the day: 
And the breeze dies down to a whisper 
here — 
Where Padres used to pray. 

The waters gush from the broken fount, — 

But sadly, quietly now; 
For gone are the monks who led them 
forth,— 

The turf is green o'er their brow. 

The lizard slides on the tottering walls. 

That were once so brave and strong; 
While the very birds, 'round these ruins 
gray. 

Raise but a plaintive song. 
The cells where brown Franciscans dwelt 

Are ceiled with dank, dark moss; 
So deeply the tooth of Time hath gone 

We can scarcely find a cross! 
The cross, the name and the date grow dim, 

Only the faith remains: 
The monk departs, but his faith endures 

Through the years with their beating 
rains. 

(ten) 



other Poems of the West 



Seventeen hundred and something I find 
In a cell half buried by leaves : — 

A pine tree shoots from the knee-worn 
stones. 
And you'd almost say it grieves! 

The new must prevail — ^the old give place — 

And yet — oh heart of mine — 
There is something that speaks to me out of 
the Past, 

When I stand at this ruined shrine. 

That stirs my heart to its uttermost depths, 
But the reason I do not know, 

When I muse on these symbols of faith and 
love 
From the years of long ago. 

Here were gardens of flowers from far-ofF 
Spain, 

The olive, the palm and the vine; 
Where bees and butterflies find today 

But sunlight's golden wine; 

Here bells that clashed in the old gray 
towers ; 

And voices of prayer and praise; 
Where brown hands wrought in glad content 

In those dim, forgotten days. 

All this — and more — that may never return, 
While the tides march up and down; — 

The cowl and the cord, and the sandal shoon 
And the Padres' robes of brown. 

(eleven) 



The Call of California 



But ever the best of it all shall bide. 
While rains slant in from the sea; 

The gentleness, kindness and patient faith 
Live yet for you and me. 

And long as the mercy of God shall pour 

Our sea-fogs from His hands. 
Will dreams and deeds of the "Mission 
days" 

Be part of the lore of these lands. 




(twelve) 



other Poems of the West 



Junipero Serra 

®HEN weaklings feared and doubted, 
While unfaith scoffed and flouted. 
Thou still didst trust, 
And in the dust, 
Prone on thy face, didst pray. 
Till, lo! the sudden ray 
Of hope, — and ev'ry lip. 
Rejoicing cried: "The ship!" 
Deep in eternal granite be it graved 
How, in that hour, was California saved. 

►P >j< »j< 
Junipero Serra sleeps today 
By the mission walls at Carmel Bay; 
His task well done, he takes his rest, 
With thin hands crossed on his saintly 

breast : 
While brown hills welcome the winter rains, 
Or lark songs ripple o'er poppied pjains; — 
His dreams and deeds in the days of old 
Are part of the lore of our land of gold. 




(thirteen) 



The Call of Californ 



The West 

BLONG our blue Sierra's wall. 
No molderinfT castles rest; 
But there the Redman's Thunder-bird 
Hath built his lonely nest. 

No hoary donjons, foul with crime, 

Oppress the good, clean sod 
Where live-oaks meet, with knotted arms, 

The blazing bolts of God. 

Instead of doubtful titles stamped 
On pride's dim vellumed page. 

The sullen grizzly here hath left 
The claw marks of his rage. 

No silken halls, no softness here. 

No courtiers, false as hell; 
But from the echoing granite gorge 

The panther's deadly yell! 

Here, laws unflattering, primal, harsh ; 

The desert's scorching breath; 
Here, thorn, fang, claw and scalping knife- 

The crimson trail of death! 

And what are man-made kings and courts, 

With cheap, brief honors set. 
Where, in the red, raw clay of things, 

God's thumb-prints yet are wet? 

(fourteen) 



other Poem 3 of the West 



Amid these awful solitudes. 

With skies so still and blue. 
Are held such deadly, fierce debates 

As minstrels never knew. 

Here howling winds of ocean meet 

The wild winds of the sky. 
While vast, dim shapes from desert wastes 

Their spirals wheel on high. 

Cliff calls to cliff; th' avalanche 

Replies in thunders loud. 
While shafts of blinding lightning split 

The swirling, inky cloud. 

That bursts, and ploughs the mountains 
down. 

The salt plain's hissing sands, 
Till fresh-torn canon gulfs reveal 

Earth's granite swaddling bands! 
* * * 

And here are men, sons of thy strength. 

Oh, western land of mine, 
Gay, tender, careless, swift and wild. 

But upright as the pine. 

Serene, clear-eyed, of Spartan speech. 

The breed of men out here. 
Who've trailed with hunger, thirst and 
death. 

But never met with fear. 

The wide, free winds are in their hearts, 
The deep-voiced torrent's roar, 

(fifteen) 



The Call of Californ 



The solemn stillness of the woods. 
Beside the lonely shore. 

They need no finger-posts for faith; 

No self-sure go-between; 
They look God in the face and smile; 

Their rugged hearts are clean. 

They pluck the gray wolf from his den; 

They tire the grizzly down. 
Or peacefully their harvests reap 

Along the foothills brown. 

They beat the mountain into dust; 

They burst its ribs apart; 
Their laughter rings Homeric when 

They clutch its golden heart! 

Alone they win the chill, still heights, 

By mountain sheep untrod; 
They gaze abroad, they bare their brows 

And shout, "Hurrah for God!" 

Oh, little folk, who cringe and hedge. 

Who cannot understand, 
They tread a broader trail than yours 

Across our Sunset Land, 

Where man is kin to peak and star. 
The wide plain's lonely space ; 

Where oft they ride so close to God 
They meet Him — face to face! 

(sixteen) 



other Poems of the West 



Mt. Rubidoux at Dawn 

CHE mocking birds are singing in the 
eucalyptus tops. 
It's early in the morning, and the fog is 
everywhere ; 
The sounds of nature's wakening come to us 
tunefully 
All softly muffled by the misty air. 

The "cotton tails" are hopping in the barley 
by the road ; 
Behind a bush the clucking quail are 
bunched — about to fly; 
The liquid, melting melody of joyous meadow 
larks 
Like silvery bubbles floats along the sky. 
The "ragged robin" roses spill their nectar 
on the grass 
Before the robber bees, who love the sun, 
are out of bed: 
While drowsy poppies wait to pour libations 
to their lord. 
When in the East he rears his radiant 
head. 
The shimmering, emerald laces of the 
queenly pepper tree 
Are strewn with dewy pearls and fringed 
with flakes of scarlet flame; 
While the orange, dark and lustrous, in her 
robes of green and gold. 
Hath sent through all the earth this val- 
ley's name. 

(seventeen) 



The Call of California 



The golden-dusted mustard pours its fra- 
grance down the hill. 
To where, in marshy tule beds, the noisy 
blackbirds throng: 
The jangle of the cattle bells comes faintly 
from below 
Where the lazy Santa Ana rolls along. 

How sweet the button-sage's breath upon 
the quiet air; 
How fresh and clean the odor from the 
haunting, whispering pines: 
While, spread in wild profusion, where the 
gray old boulders cling, 
The splendor of the morning-glory vines ! 

But now the fog is ebbing fast along Juini- 
pa's hills, 
As over San Jacinto gleam the banners of 
the sun: 
Far up on foot-worn Rubidoux a shining 
cross appears. 
The symbol that the earth's long night is 
done. 



(eighteen) 



other Poems of the West 



The Mission Inn 

^T4iTH its ivied walls and its cloistered halls 
VJL/ And a coolness and quietness all its own; 
From its shady bowers to its tuneful towers 
It's a fair dream fashioned in good gray 
stone ; 
With a high ideal everywhere. 
With a fineness of sentiment in the air. 
And music — that soothes like the soul 
of prayer. 

There's bread and meat — ^for a man must 
eat — 
But there's more than that to make one 
whole ; 
The builder's dream had a broader theme 
In this caravansarai for the soul. 
''Sursuvi cor da, "we seem to hear 
From good St. Francis, standing near, 
"Lift up your hearts, and make good 
cheer." 

The saints are gone, yet they still live on; 

Still is their gentle influence felt; 
From niche and nook they kindly look. 
As when Junipero Serra knelt 

And told to Indians swart and wild 
The wondrous tale of the dear Christ- 
child— 
And the love of Mary, the mother mild. 

When the day grows dim, and the vesper 
hymn 

(nineteen) 



The Call of California 



So tunefully sounds in the silvery chimes, 

I seem to hear — far away and clear — 

Voices that speak from the olden times: 

Of sacrifice, better than gold or fame. 

Of love that burned like a fragrant 

flame — 
Till my selfish heart is faint for shame. 

Not for me alone is this sermon in stone, 
Nor only to me do these mute things 
speak : 
Full many a heart has received its part. 
The quiet tear glistened on many a 
cheek ; 
Many a pilgrim has paused to say: 
"I'm glad my heart ever found the way 
To the Mission Inn at the close of day." 




(twenty) 



other Poems of the West 



Down the Grade with **Bob*' 

(1874) 

^f^E'VE topped the grade, now for the 

Vly other side; 

Sling the buckskin in 'em — let 'er slide. 

We're full of 'Frisco folks and tenderfeet 
That wants some early stagin' — here's their 
treat. 

Straighten them tugs — don't let 'em drag 

the dust — 
Hi there! you trottin' pinto, lope er bust. 

A bunch of broncs, and hellions every one- 
Hoop-la, git out-f ergit yer shoulder's skun. 

Oh we're all right: my lady, dry yer tears. 
Sit down, my lord, and chase away yer 
fears ; 

The road is twelve feet wide from bluff to 

ledge 
With manzaniller strung along the edge. 

Why. man alive, a Chinymun at night 
Could strike the trail here — why it's out o' 
sight! 

Git out o' here — you leaders, switch yer 

tails, 
Yer haulin' Uncle Sammy's sacred mails; 

Stretch them there traces, limber up yer 

heels. 
No moseyin' er I'll show you how it feels. 

(twenty-one) 



The Call of California 



No bitin' now — you lop-eared antelope — 
You old kyoty — bust it down the slope; 

Jump through them collars — ^hump yer 

backs 'n git — 
You haven't turned a hair — now chaw the 

bit. 

Thanks, stranger, yes, — I surely guess I 

could 
Smoke a cigar-gimme a light-that's good; 

There haint no tin-foil cabbage leaves to 

that— 
A Mexican cigar — I'll bet my hat! 

You see, I used tuh run 'em through, you 

know 
Over the Rio Grande from Mexico, 

Some years before that old wheel plug was 

bom — 
But here's our hangout — Gabriel toot yer 

horn; 

Grubstake Junction, where they'll treat you 

white. 
The bar-room's blazin' — strangers, will you 

light? 




(twenty -two) 



other Poems of the West 



The Road by Panama 

^^HE old road, the gold road, the road by 

V^ Panama, 

As lurid, ghastly as the path that Dante 
dimly saw, 

Hemmed about by nameless terrors, haunted 
by alarms, — 

The ghosts of treasure-seekers spent, of 
spectral men-at-arms. 

A narrow way and rugged, wild, where jun- 
gle shadows spread 

O'er many a bubbling, slimy pool and hide- 
ous blotch of red. 

Amid its ooze the rotting bones of famished 
Spanish mules. 

The grinning skulls of picaroons and for- 
tune's cheated fools. 

The venomed snake, the vulture keen, the 
deadly fly are there. 

And fetid heaps whose breath is death upon 
the sickly air. 

* He 4: 

Along the hot, dark forest aisles again we 
seem to hear 

The rush of feet, the clash of blades, the 
hoarse-voiced buccaneer. 

The whistle of the slaver's whip, the screams 
of tortured men. 

Who sink beneath the bloody lash to never 
rise again; 

The silver-laden, grunting mules, with plun- 
der from Peru, 

(twenty-three) 



The Call of California 



The shouts of conquering Cortez' men, of 

Drake and Morgan's crew; 
Pizarro's Spaniards, haggard, weak, with 

fear in every eye, 
Who may not stay nor sleep for ever "on- 
ward" is the cry; 
Who fear the gloom where glows the 

hounded Indian's sleepless hate. 
Where mutilated galley-slaves like panthers 

lie in wait; — 
And so full oft they cross themselves, to 

stout San Yago pray. 
As on they urge with curses foul through 

the hot, weary way. 
Hugging tight their hard-won spoils and 

fainting with desire 
To tread the streets of Panama and lap its 

liquid fire; 
Where painted harpies watch for them, with 

baleful eyes and bold, 
To strip them clean with iron claws and 

leave them stark and cold. 



Oh! the old road, the gold road, the road by 

Panama, 
A rosary of every crime, where lawlessness 

was law. 
Where harvestings of piracies on sea and 

land went by, — 
Thrice cursed treasure black with groans 

and ravished women's cry; 
The minted sweat and blood of branded, 

scarred, Peruvian slaves, 

(twenty-four) 



other Poems of the West 



The riflings of their temples, yea, the win- 
nowings of their graves! 

* * * 

And later, by this wild highway, with daunt- 
less hearts aflame. 

The boisterous, bearded Argonauts from 
California came; 

In motley rags with belts and bags of un- 
stained virgin ore 

Stripped from the shining, granite ribs of 
Eldorado's shore! 

* * * 

Aye, many a golden trickle ran, through 

many a fearful year 
To swell the rich Pactolus tide of this Hell's 

gullet here. 
But all is hushed and quiet now: they 

passed and left no trace, 
And in the solemn forest shade no eye may 

mark their place. 
They dreamed their dream, they wrought 

their deed of valor or of shame. 
To share alike, some few brief years, an 

infamy of fame! 




(twenty-five) 



The Call of California 



Mexico 



,HE is circled with lakes, she is shad- 
_ owed by mountains, 

Snow-mantled, pine-plumed, under-girded 
with flame; 
She is young, she is old as her sister of Egypt, 
She is ever, forever, yet never the same. 

Fresh is her cheek as her green curving 
valleys, 
Care free her heart as her brown babes at 
rest; 
Bright are her hopes as the eyes of her 
daughters, 
Her passion as fierce as her storms from 
the West. 

Her story as sad as the gloom of her "northers," 
Her struggle as epic as ever was told; 

Her heroes are laureled in valor's Valhalla, 
With coronals woven of nopal and gold. 

Oh, Mexico! heiress of cycles of sorrow. 
Of jungle-grown hieroglyphs, meaningless 
now. 

Of histories, cities, dumb, buried forever, 
Of mysteries dark as the runes on thy brow. 

Glorious with rare carven gems from the ages, 

Waiting the wonderful years yet to be. 
Clasping thy brown hand we hail thee, our 
sister, 
Thou queen, silver throned by thine opal- 
esque sea. 

Itwenty-six) 



other Poems of the West 



The Land of the Arriero 

^rtHERE valleys are deep and mountains 

VJL^ are high 

And the mule-track hangs like a streak in 

the sky, — 
Like a vulture's path through the thin, still 

air 
Far over the "hot lands," shimmering there; 
Where afar and faintly the music swells 
Of quick-stepping, grey mules' silvery bells; 
Where pine trees yield to the pine-apple's 

gold 
And billows of bloom o'er the earth are 

rolled; 
Where the trees drip honey, the sod sweats 

death 
And sucks out your life with its vampire 

breath ; 
Where the warm, green heart of that lotus 

land 
Gives all with a care-free, generous hand, — 
'Tis there that the gay arriero's found. 
Where he takes his ease on his own home 

ground. 

Where cataracts thunder, the parrots scream. 
And gorgeous, wonderful butterflies gleam, 
While marvelous birds in their glowing wings 
Wear the royal splendors of Aztec kings; 
Where the wild orange drops its acrid fruit 
Near the strangled, writhing ceiba's root; 
Where the hiss is heard of the spotted snake 

(twenty-seven) 



The Call of California 



As iguanas slide through the bamboo brake; 
Where the tapir crunches the river reeds 
And the jaguar leaps as the red deer feeds; 
And the cayman basks on the sun-baked bar, 
While life, as you knew it, seems dim and 

far; — 
From there do the swart arrieros come, — 
To those mystical beauties blind and dumb. 

They laden their mules with rich, fragrant 

freights : 
Coffee, vanilla, fruits, parrots in crates, 
Sugar, tobacco, raw liquor in casks, 
A mouthful of which arriero asks 
To lighten his heart up the steep, rough road, 
'Neath the scorching sun and the heavy load. 

Lithe as a tigre and tireless of limb, 
Clean moulded in bronze, ev'ry inch of him, 
Son of the sunland, gay, careless and wild, 
Aztec, fierce, passionate, nature's own child. 
His thirty stout mules upward grunting go 
Over the narrow trail, steady and slow; 
Snuffing the pathway that clings to the edge 
Of the sheer down-dropping, slippery ledge; 
The trail that was known to Cortez of old 
Who dreamed of dim valleys paven with gold. 
While crushing the land 'neath his iron-shod 

heel 
When the red years rang to the clash of 

steel! 

How silvery sweet ring the mule-bells there, 
When the dew yet freshens the morning air! 

(twenty-eight) 



other Poems of the West 



How merrily sound the songs of the South, 
As carelessly flung from the muleteer's 

mouth: 
Songs of the soil, of the heart, of the sun, 
Of dulce amor or partida won, 
With many a sighing and ay de mi, 
In the high-pitched, Mexican nasal key! 

He's a good paisano, I know him well, 

He hopes there's a heaven, is sure there's a 

hell, 
Trusts in the padre, remembers to pray 
To the blessed saints in his own blind way. 
And slaves for his amo for scanty pay. 
He climbs the wild mountains in sun or 

shower 
And cares for his mules in the darkest 

hour; 
His * amo would grieve for an injured mule, 
As for him, why, he is only a fool. 
Like a simple hero of low degree 
He dies for his charge if need there be 
And returns to his palm-thatched hut no 

more 
Where his brown babes roll on the cool, 

dirt floor. 




(twenty-nine) 



The Call of California 



A Thunder Storm in Puebla 

HROM morning prayer until mid-af- 
ternoon 
The August sun has scorched us to a swoon; 
The languid flowers droop, the pepper trees 
Respond but feebly to the faint, hot breeze. 

The brown hills are a quiver with the heat: 
Hugging the scanty shade of every street 
The dogs slink by too spent to scratch or 

bark; 
Awhile the beggars cease their whine, when 

hark, — 
Down from the mountain rolls a long, deep 

roar 
And wise "Poblanos" shut and bar the door. 

In thrice three credos old Malinche's brow 
Is swirled in ebon darkness, where but now 
The southern sun poured down a flood of 

gold 
O'er shattered crag and wrinkled lava fold. 

With tropic fierceness falls th' onrushing 

gloom, 
Swiftly the bright day yields its virgin bloom 
To the marauder, thunder-browed, whose 

power 
Swells black to heav'n in this tempestuous 

hour. 
Now latch the shutters, chain the heavy door, 
Call to the Virgin, all the saints implore 

(thirty) 



other Poems of the West 



As shouting winds and lightning's crooked 

prong 
Urge the slow-footed, bellowing clouds along. 

Jesus, Maria, hearken to the rain 
Flooding the patio while on every pane 
The hailstones beat the very fiend's tatoo, 
And every dust-clogged water-spout a-spew! 
Most Blessed Virgin, we confess our faults, 
(Maria, vida mia, bring my salts), 
Where is Francisco, lazy lout, to burn 
The blessed palm leaves in the incense urn? 

No time for chatter now, nor idle talk, 
When sulphur-breathing demons near us 

walk, 
"Sweet Guadalupe, help us all today, 
To thee we pobres pecadores pray." 

Then suddenly, in one long, furious blast. 
Of lightning, thunder, hail, the storm has 

passed. 
The sun appears, and in the western skies 
The rainbow path that slopes to Paradise! 

Gone are the dolour, darkness, and the gloom, 
Gone every thought of an unwelcome tomb: 
Vaya, mi alma, now the storm is o'er, 
Bid the portero haste, unbar the door. 
Blow out the candles, we shall not be late. 
The tandas won't begin till half-past eight. 



(thirty-one) 



The Call of California 



Taking the Veil (Mexico) 

^rtlTH unbound hair and brown feet bare, 
\\J A taper in her hands, 
Within the gloomy convent church 
A dark-eyed maiden stands, 

All corpse-like in a clinging shroud, 

A cross upon her breast, — 
The hour hath come to bid farewell 

To all she loveth best. 

Her virgin heart is dry as dust, 

Her face is like the dead; 
The church hath laid its withering touch 

Upon her fair young head. 

Her thin hand wears a golden band, — 

The mystic wedding ring 
That seals her as the spouse of Christ, 

Her Lover, Bridegroom, King. 

The air is heavy, damp and cold. 

The candles dimly gleam 
While priests about the altar go 

Like figures in a dream. 

They chant the service for the dead. 

For her so wan and still. 
With Kyrie eleison 

From boyish voices shrill. 

O! hapless maid, deceived, betrayed, 
The victim of a vow, 

(thirty-two) 



other Poems of the West 



To wither in a living death, 
Like Jephtha's daughter now! 

No lover's kiss, no mother's bliss 
Her frozen heart may know, 

Within the convent's coflBn walls 
Through years of dumb-lipped woe. 

No more on earth may she behold 

Each well-beloved face; 
No more the circle of the home 

Shall hold for her a place; 

All, all, upon the altar there 

Hath now been sacrificed, 
And so farewell to life and love. 

Farewell, thou bride of Christ. 

One last wild look at love and life, 
One shriek, — and that is all, 

A doleful bell rings like a knell, 
The sable curtains fall. 




(thirty-three) 



The Call of Californi 



Old House in Puebla, Mexico 

CHREE hundred years are in these walls. 
These iron-bound doors of oak, 
Whose rugged strength has oft withstood 
Sir Robber's shrewdest stroke. 

The knocker wears a demon's head, — 

Jesu, and well-away; 
A goatish devil, bearded, horned, 

Let him who knocketh pray 

To where above, in battered niche, 

The good St. Francis stands, 
Marked Christwise in his blessed feet 

And in his loving hands. 

The Moorish front is gay with tiles 

Of yellow, green and blue, 
Inwrought in cunning, quaint designs 

As ancient craftsmen knew. 

Rude gargoyles grin from jutting eaves, 

A spout of hammered lead 
Shoots the flat roof's flood to the street 

Through gaping lion's head. 

Above the door an ancient crest, 
Carved in the old grey stone: — 

A tiger couched, a helmet barred, 
A fist that grips its own! 

They say the house is haunted, cursed, 
And show a bloody stain 

(thirty-four) 



other Poems of the West 



Linked with a tale of love and gold 
From the old Spanish Main. 

Great spiders lurk in corners dim, 

Foul bats breed in the wall; 
At night, when worm-gnawed timbers creak, 

Faint whispers fill the hall. 

From lips of dust, from love betrayed. 
From woman's vengeful heart, 

Whose clinging curse from these old stones 
May nevermore depart. 



A Mexican Beggar 

^P^ECAUSE he was so old, deformed and 
^^kj poor. 

Because he bent so meekly his hoar head, 
Because he bore the dignity of sorrow 
-rt-s some king begging in a beggar's guisb. 
Because he was so thankful for the trifle 
Carelessly tossed him from my surplus 

store: — 
Because of his bare feet and tattered rags — 
His thin grey locks and utter misery, 
I rested but uneasily that night, 
Dreaming of Dives, Lazarus and their lesson, 
Of creed and church, of apostolic faith. 
Of orthodox confessions and professions — 
Strange a street beggar should disturb me 

so! 

(thirty-five) 



The Call of California 

A Glimpse of Mexico 
at Home 

CHE windows frown with heavy bars of 
iron; 
The great zaguan is like some castle door, 
Spiked, bolted, chained and solid as the wall, 
With quaint bronze knocker o'er the wicket 
hung. 

For there were times, whose mem'ry still is 

fresh. 
When great need was of such stout doors as 

these, — 
When bold Sir Robber, loud-voiced, sword 

in hand. 
Knocked not so gently as we knock today. 

Three centuries are seen in this zaguan 

Of evolution, liberty and law; 

And twenty centuries are in the cry 

Of the portero, fumbling at the bar, 

Who calls quien es? before he slips the 

chain. 
As porters in the dim days of the Christ. 

Yo Soy, we cry, — the old man hears and 

knows 
The accents of his patron's welcome voice. 
Drops the huge chain, slides back the bar, 

and we 
Are in the patio of a Mexic home! 

(thirty-six) 



other Poems of the West 



Coohiess and rest; a fountain in the midst, 
Decked with quaint carvings, murmurs 

drowsily; 
The solid, whitened arches all about, 
Have brought us to the ancient Moorish 

Spain, 
Shutting us from the modern world outside, 
Into the home life of Cid Campeador! 

Flowers ev'rywhere, in Talavera pots. 

In shattered ollas, broken sugar moulds, 

While orchids, cactus, bloom in great ox 

horns 
Hung from rude spikes thrust in the old 

stone wall. 

Chatter of women 'round the plashing fount. 
Brown, shirtless ninos creeping in the sun; 
And over all, laughter and glad content, — 
Happy, though poor, these simple Mexicans. 

Within the house we find the constant lamp 
Of turnip oil before the Virgin placed, — 
Sweet symbol of a faith that will not die; 
Chromos of hell and heaven, angels, fiends, 
The good man borne to glory, while foul 

devils 
All hoofed and horned, bear the bold sinner 

hence, 
To red hell shrieking, — all in vivid hues, — 
No place for "higher criticism" there. 

The almanac hangs open on the wall 
To mark the saint's days of the mother 
church; 

(thirty-seven) 



The Call of Calilornia 



Rude charcoal burners from the pine-clad 

slopes 
Of dark Malinche, farmers, artisans, 
The rich and poor, all guard the "holy days," 
And even butchers close their reeking stalls. 

You cannot know, you cannot understand 
You careless tourist from the outside world. 
You do not, cannot feel the inner life 
That throbs in Mexico, the guide-books fail, 
They may not give the "open sesame: — " 

The patios where crystal fountains drip, 
Where women gossip when the air is cool, 
The courtesy, the kindness, filial love 
That links the home hearts here in Mexico. 

From polished hoop the parrot swings and 

screams 
In fluent Spanish all the drowsy day; 
The lavanderas swash their clothes near by 
Where brown babes crawl, in naked comfort 

free, — 
"Race suicide," a thing undreamed of here! 

Compadres and comadres, wrinkled, grey, 
Still use the customs of old Abram's time, 
Poetic, patriarchal, — poured round all 
The silver melody of Spanish speech! 

Servants grown old in service of their friend, 
Their lord and amo, master of their lives 
Who serve for love and the sweet "nifio's" 

sake, — 
Faithful till death, — there are such servants 

here. 

(thirty-eight) 



other Poems of the West 



And over all this inner life of ours 

In rippling waves, a heart-born laughter 

flows, 
A simple happiness and sweet content. 
How much there is that money cannot buy, 
That may be found here in this ancient land; 
Things the heart hungers for, the pearls of 

faith, 
Strange, but you'll find them with these 

Mexicans; 

But not for sale, nor saleable for such 
Are the choice fruits of simple lives that 

hold 
Fast to the principles onr fathers knew, 
When they were glad and grateful in their 

day 
For rain and sunshine, harvest and a home. 
And sweet babes growing heav'nward from 

the hearth, — 
Yea, such things may be found in Mexico! 




(thirty-nine) 



The Call of Californ 



In the Days of the Buccaneers 

^f^HERE Palo Verde broods above 
\MJ The never quiet waves, 
That burst in thunder far within 

Her pearl-enameled caves, 
Alone, upon the sea-birds' ledge 

That overhangs the bay, 
I watch the fleet of fishers creeping 

Catalina way; 
The lumber schooners warping in. 

All redolent of pine. 
The deep-sea freighters at their docks 

Where donkey-engines whine; 
I trace the sea-wall's shelt'ring arm 
That holds the harbor light 
To cheer the channel coasters through 
The wild Southeaster's night. 
And, while the shining steamers pass 
Like shuttles to and fro. 
Before my eyes there seem to rise 

The days of long ago. 
Seen through the veil of vanished years 

How dim and far they seem, — 
The treasure ship, the pirate's gold, — 

A half remembered dream! 

THE GALLEON 

Beyond the bay, Manila bound, 

I see the galleon go. 
Deep laden with her silver spoil 

From mines in Mexico. 

(forty) 



other Poems of the West 



Her fat hull lined with dye-woods, gums, 

Rude bales of wrinkled hides, 
Pearls, ginseng, crimson cochineal 

And bezoar stones besides. 

Athwart the high, embattled poop 

Her stately name unrolled, — 
"La Trinidad Santisima," 

In carven scrolls of gold. 

Her culv'rins huge, of Moorish bronze. 
Each duly named and blessed. 

Reveal th' armourer's utmost art, — 
On each the royal crest. 

High overhead, with Cross blood-red. 

The banner of Castile, 
While clad in shining Milan mail 

From haughty head to heel. 

The blue-veined Don looks proudly down 

Along her castled walls. 
Silent save v/hen to ear-ringed men 

His silver trumpet calls. 

The crew, right sturdy villains all, 

By dreams of plunder led; 
Bound turban wise with gaudy scarves 

Each scarred, ferocious head. 

While mingled with them friars grey, 
Who deem the world but dross, 

So might they bear to heathen lands 
The mystery of the Cross. 

(forty-one) 



The Call of Californi 



With glorious eyes of Andaluz 

And rippling, ebon hair 
A grieving daughter bends beside 

Her gray-beard father there 

And stares as one distraught upon 

The cold and cruel sea, 
Or breathes soft prayers to pitying saints 

With many an ay de mi! 

Sweet Jesus, will she see once more 

Her sun-bright Spanish home 
Beyond the fields of bitter brine, 

The weary leagues of foam? 

Don Captain Vasco de Guzman, 

A valiant Spaniard he, 
Who fears not any shape that haunts 

The vast, mysterious sea: 

The hippocamp with leathern wings. 

The serpent-headed whale. 
The fearful kraken, slimy, huge. 

With scales like brazen mail; 

Whose writhing arms suck down the ships 

Swirled in an inky tide: — 
The crested dragons spouting flame 

On whom the mermen ride: — 

When sandaled pilgrims, whisp'ring tell 

Of such foul worms as these, 
That rear aloft their hideous heads 

In strange, uncharted seas, 

(forty -two) 



other Poems of the West 



With swelling Spanish oaths the Don 

Will stun the doubting ear, — 
How all such scurvy cattle he 

Has seen, but cannot fear; 

Not them, nor all the roaring fiends 

Astride the tempest's blast: — 
For why, — he hath a holy bone 

Safe bedded in the mast! 

A gracious bone, most potent, rare. 
From good San Yago's shrine, — 

That foul fiend's self dare not draw near 
Where that sweet bone doth shine! 

Yet one there was whose dreaded name 
Could chill the Don with fear: — 

Bill Hawkins, heretic accursed. 
The English buccaneer! 

The picture shifts, the galleon's gone, 

Through mists of silver spray 
And now the wolfish pirate ship 

Comes snuffing up the bay. 

THE PIRATES 

For long, long years the Silver Seas 

That name of terror knew, — 
Bill Hawkins, monster, merciless. 

And his ferocious crew 

Of crop-eared knaves, scarred galley slaves. 
And rogues with branded hands. 

Gaol fruit to weight the gallows tree, — 
Swept up in many lands. 

(forty-three) 



The Call of Californ 



From Maracaibo to Peru, 

From Vera Cruz to Spain 
Their crimson crimes unnameable 

Had left a bloody train, 

Each scuttled ship a blazing tomb 

With ne'er a breath of life; — 
One swift grim law for all, — the plank, 

Rope, pistol, pike or knife! 

With wolfish eyes they share the prize. 
With many a murderous blow; — 

The jolly Roger overhead, 
The ghastly decks below; 

They broach the rum, the fiddlers come. 

Around and 'round they reel; 
They've diced with Death, the game is theirs, 

With a dead man at the wheel! 

And while their hellish revelry 

Affronts the quiet skies 
They're off again for Port o' Spain 

And some fat galleon prize. 

So grew their glittering, golden spoil 

But ah, the shrieks and tears, 
The gurgling groans that blackened it 

Through wild, crime-crusted years; 

That treasure wrung from bursting hearts, 

From pallid hands of woe, 
By tortures sharp and exquisite 

As only devils know. 

(forty-four) 



other Poems of the West 



But when at last the lion's paw 

Upon Bill Hawkins fell 
The bulk of their huge hoard was gone 

And where, — no man could tell. 

In clanking chains they hung him high 

At Execution Dock. 
Yet to the end he snapped and cursed, 

His heart like any rock. 

He would not tell, nor ever told. 

He left no faintest clew. 
No map nor scrap to guide the greed 

Of his rapacious crew, 

Who searched in vain through all their 
haunts, 

On many a shining shore, 
By cave and cliff, by tree and tower 

A twelve months' space or more. 

By rum and riot some were slain, 

And some by foul disease, 
Some rotted in the festering slime 

Of dungeons overseas; 

Upon the rack some howled their last, 

Too few the gibbet bore; 
To open sea the rest won free, 

And there an oath they swore. 

To seek far off in Western seas 

Bill Hawkin's hidden lair 
For Mack-faced Anak in a dream 

Had seen the treasure there! 

(forty-five) 



The Call of California 



Then Westward Ho! away they go, 

They cross the Silver Seas 
Whose coral islands oft had known 

Their merry devilries. 

On, on they sail till warm winds fail, 

They curse the ice and snow: 
Again the black man dreams his dream, 

And onward aye they go. 

Around the utmost icy cape 

They wrestle with the blast; 
Then shift their sails to milder gales 

And trust the worst is past. 

They sight Peru, "Spain's treasure chest,"- 

The land Pizarro won, 
(It's jeweled temples paved with gold). 

From Incas of the sun. 

Like grinning wolves that near the prey 

They urge the ship along; 
The rum beside the mast all day, 

All night the rover's song. 

Now clear and cold like silver spires 

The peaks of Mexico 
Where Cortez found a Spanish cure 

For Montezuma's woe; 

And found withal such shining pearls. 
Such emerald stones and gold. 

Thai every pirate sucks his cheeks 
Whene'er the tale is told. 

(forty-six) 



other Poems of the West 



Through windless seas of sodden grass 

Most evilly they fare, 
Till sails with rotting mold are green 

As any mermaid's hair, 
Till Hawkins and his gold they curse 

And curse each other there. 

Then California's golden shore 
With wondering joy they view, 

The friendly Indian's flashing oar 
Beside his swift canoe; 

The fair green hills whose silver rills 

Run singing to the sea 
Through fragrant meadows bright with bloom 

And wild bird's minstrelsy. 

His dream holds yet, the signs are met, 

Black Anak grins with glee; 
Lo! on the right St. Peter's cove, 

St. Catharine on the lee. 

Down come the sails, the anchor plumps, 

The rum goes gaily 'round. 
Were never men more fain to see 

Their shadows on the ground! 

With panting strokes they win the beach, 

Th' Ethiop leads the way: 
Their hot breaths whistle at his back, 

His thick lips seem to pray. 

Now here, now there, they search and swear, 

God, how they ramp and rave; 
Have they been diddled by a dream, — 

Then Christ that black man save! 

(forty-seven) 



The Call of Californ 



With frenzied hands they hurl the sands, 

Rocks, shells and vines apart, 
In every eye the lust for gold, 

Murder in each foul heart. 

At last their streaming toil unstops 

A huge, hlack yawning hole; 
So murky, deep and deadly cold 

That fear grips every soul; 

But not for long, — they strike a flint 

The spark leaps out and there 
They eye the ghastly proofs that mark 

Bill Hawkin's secret lair! 

A shattered skull, a rusted blade, 

A shapeless pile of bones, — 
At which some spat and crossed themselves 

And spake in milder tones: 

Then swore more foully, passed the rum, 

Thrust forth a torch and saw 
What they had scourged the seas to gain 

And broken every law. 

Deep sunken in the cavern's mold 

The smoking lights reveal 
An ancient chest of Spanish oak 

With bands and bolts of steel; 

Upon whose cover, red with rust. 

Some dim device is seen; 
A Latin scrawl, a helmet plumed. 

With ramping beasts between; 

(forty -eight) 



other Poems of the West 



At sight of which the gloomy vault 
Resounds with oaths and cheers. — 

Forgotten then their scars and wounds 
Their hunger, cold and fears. 

Leaps forth the dreamer Anak then 
With hoarse unhuman yell — 

A tongueless eunuch huge and black, — 
Tusked like a fiend from Hell, 

Heaves up a mighty bowlder there, 
Bursts oak and steel in twain 

And lo! the long sought glittering hoard, 
Culled from the Spanish Main! 

THE TREASURE 

They do not dream, the torches gleam 

On gold and jewels there; 
Such gems as high-born Spanish dames 

On cold, proud bosoms wear; 

Sequins, pistoles, broad gold doubloons, 

Dull burnished silver bars. 
Carbuncles, emeralds, diamonds bright 

That sparkle like the stars; 

Pieces of eight, rich silver plate, 
Fair pearls like shining tears. 

With many a dainty trinket torn 
From shrieking beauty's ears; 

Brave rings with fingers in them yet, 
All fleshless, black and dried, — 

A grisly harvest, cutlass reaped 
From blue-veined hands of pride; 

(forty -nine) 



The Call of California 



Bejeweled blades of damascene 

From Spain's dark, bloody sod 
And great rose rubies, once the eyes 

Of some tusked, snouted god; 

Gilt crucifixes, candlesticks, 

Basons of beaten gold 
And chalices with diamond studs 

Lapped in a cloudy fold 
Of laces wrought by pallid nuns 

In Spanish convents cold. 

With furious haste such splendid spoil 

They heap together there 
Would buy thrones, virtues, souls of men,— 

St. Peter's ivory chair! 

Yet when each one his share surveys 

It shows so mean and small. 
In every envious heart is hatched 

The will to win it all. 

Greed shows its hissing, venomed head, 
Bursts forth each ancient hate; 

Not one can meet another's eye 
Nor trust his trusted mate. 

Like wolves they snarl, like foul fiends roar 

Around that gloomy cave. 
Nor hear the whistling wind without. 

Nor heed the lapping wave. 

Each tears his fellow's cursing throat 

Each lunging blade is red; 
Till 'round that mocking treasure lie 

But dying men or dead. 

(fifty) 



other Poems of the West 



In crimson pools that slowly creep 

Along the trampled mire 
A little space the torches hiss 

Like serpents ringed with fire; 

Then darkness seals each staring eye 

In that unhallowed grave, — 
Their requiem but the wailing wind, 

The moaning of the wave. 

Awhile the keen-eyed buzzard wheels 

Above the cavern's door, 
And horny crabs slide in and out 

Across the fetid floor; 

The gaunt coyote snufling comes 

Then softly slinks away, 
While slowly rots the pirate ship 

Upon the lonely bay. 

The years slip by, then comes a day. 

Tense, boding, hot and still. 
No sound is heard from beast or bird 

Along the hazy hill; 

In whirls of dust the dry leaves dance 
Beside the listening shore, — 

How shrunk with fear the sea-bird's cry, 
How loud the ocean's roar! 

Then suddenly the wooded hills 
The earth's firm pillars rock 

And shuddering peaks as in a fit 
Their knees together knock; 

(fifty-one) 



The Call of Callforn 



The ancient cliffs plunge in the deep, 

A thousand thunders sound, — 
Till where the sea-fowl fed her young 

But boiling waves are found! 

Gone is the pirate's cave, their gold 

Is scattered far and wide 
Along the careless ocean's floor 

The sport of every tide. 

Some little time their polished bones 

Are strewn along the shore 
Then from the memory of man 

They pass for evermore. 

^^ 

Calvary 

[HEN our dear Lord is deadly sorrow 

bound 

"Shed blood and water from his heart's deep 

wound, 
A little lad stood, boy like in the shade — 
By the rude Cross and Royal Victim made — 
And whirled his toy around in thoughtless 

glee 
Not knowing Him who bled for you and me: 
A bird sprang twittering from the grassless 

sod 
And perched upon the Tree that bore our God, 
Singing its sweet song to the fading day 
While Jesus' heart blood dripped full fast 

away. 

(fifty-two) 



ffi 



other Poems of the West 



Old Mexico 



OLD Mexico of the long ago, 
Land of the silver rills, 
The vanished centuries linger yet 
Amid thy foot-worn hills. 

From thy snows and pines, thy dark, deep 
mines, 

Down to thy tropic sea 
There is never a thing a man might ask 

That may not be found in thee! 

Silver and gold in thy ridges rolled, 
Health from thy snow-capped peaks, 

Beautiful women with flashing eyes 
And sun-kissed olive cheeks; 

Culture that comes from the Spanish Moors 

Of a thousand years ago; 
And customs that come from the yellow East 

But how — no man may know. 

Faces as fair as ever were seen 

In any rose gardens of earth; 
And the slant-eyed, squat-nosed Mongol 
breed, — 

What land first saw their birth? 

Hieroglyphs older than Norsemen's runes, — 

Palaces ancient as Tyre, 
Where the smiling child of the sun today 

Bakes his corn-cakes on the fire. 

Romance and mystery over it all. 

Mystery always and ever, 
Old as the eldest of Egypt's gods, — 

Will the light come ever, never? 
(fifty-three) 



The Call of California 



The Death Pool at La Brea 

QO song birds hover about its edge, 
Where sad winds sigh through the 
stiff, brown sedge; 
No fleet wings brush with a wild bird's grace 
The sullen tide of the Death Pool's face. 

But ever it lies there still and cold, 
Wickedly waiting, and old — so old; 
Chilling the warmth of the genial sky- 
Like a Gorgon's face with its lidless eye, 
The haunt of horror, a place of fear. 
Through many a dumb, unnumbered year. 

Up from the cold, dark chambers of death 
Oozes its pestilent, bubbling breath; 
Wrapped in the folds of its stiffened slime, 
The bones of monarchs of ancient time — 
Of huge, strange creatures of monstrous girth. 
Lords of the primitive manless earth! 
What secrets locked in that deep, dark 

grave. 
What wonders hid 'neath the thick, black 

wave. 
What dreadful shapes here have mirrored 

been 
That never by human eye were seen! 
When, under the old, old primal law 
Of bloody muzzle and crimson claw. 
The saber-tooth and the great cave-bear 
Tore the trumpeting mastodon there; 
While green-eyed dragons with leathern 

wings 
Screamed o'er the strife of the jungle kings. 

(fifty-four) 



other Poems of the West 

''Mangos de Manila" 

<</Tt ANGOS de Manila"— 
\H Hark to the mellow call, 

"Mangos de Manila," 
Most luscious fruit of all. 

"Mangos de Ma-nee-la" — 
I stop him in the shade, 

The Aztec, brown "frutero," 
And soon the sale is made. 

"Son muy dulces, jefe," 

Is what he says to me, 
"They're very sweet and juicy" — 

The truth we soon shall see. 

No mango forks are handy, 
So peel them with your knife; 

Say, stranger, did you ever 
Eat better in your life? 

The slippery fruit a-dropping 
Great gouts of liquid gold: — 

Just shut your eyes and swallow 
And dream of days of old. 

You hear the fountain tinkling, 
A strange speech meets your ear. 

The mango on your palate 
Brings it all to you here. 

It somehow draws you nearer 
To India and the East 

(fifty-five) 



The Call of California 



To Afric's tawny jungles 
A thousand years at least. 

"Mangos de Manila," 

A golden link to all 
Of good Haroun-al-Raschid, 

And muezzin's plaintive call, — 

Arabian Nights and hasheesh. 
With all our childhood knew 

Of tales from land of faery 
Broidered with gold and blue. 

The harem's marble lattice. 
Where musky south winds sigh 

In "Mangos de Ma-nee-la" 
Our swart frutero's cry. 



Grief 



HT a sunken lake's edge in the dreary 
night, 
In a cypress silvered by the dead moon's 

light. 
With rain-chilled nest and heart all desolate, 
A widowed dove sits, mourning for her mate. 



Kismet 



•c 



WAS Kismet that ever I knew him; 

'Twas Kismet that first drew me to 
him. 
And for Kismet I loved him and slew him! 

(fifty-six) 



other Poems of the West 



A Norther in Veracruz 



m 



jHEN the bluff and boisterous North 
Wind 
Comes to woo the Sunny South 
And a thousand roaring thunders 
Are the kisses of his mouth: 



When the sea birds seek a shelter 
In some battered, splintered rock 

And the walls of Juan Ullua 

Tremble 'neath the surge's shock; 

When the sails are blown to tatters, 

Timbers start in every joint. 
And the grey, bare-headed helmsman 

"Holds her down another point," 

When the booming winds of heaven 

Heap the surges o'er the deck 
And the tiger leaping lightnings 

Show the crushed and battered wreck; 

When the shark-toothed reefs are grinning. 

Waiting for their wounded prey; 
As the seething, rushing waters 

Urge the doomed ships down the bay; 

When the demons of the ocean 

Grip the goblins of the sky 
And the devils to the landward 

Fling their sandy arms on high; 

When the rain like Mauser bullets 
Hisses from the inky gloom; 

(fifty-seven) 



The Call of Californ 



And the "Pale Horse," Death bestridden, 
Gallops where the breakers boom; 

When the sailors pray the Virgin, 
And the captain makes a vow, 

And the fisher boats are scudding 
Anywhere and anyhow; 

When amid the Gulf's wild fury 
And the screams from whitened lips 

Coral reefs are ground to powder 
As they grind the groaning ships; 

When the devil takes the tiller 
And his demons rule the deck 

And the ooze from bloody corpses 
Streams and reddens o'er the wreck; 

When each skipper out to seaward 
Trembles in his sodden shoes 

Then you know we have a "Norther," 
Southward here in Veracruz. 




(fifty-eight) 



other Poems of the West 



At the Ruins of Mitla 

H MOURNFUL hollow in the old grey 
hills 
Where never a bird its glad sweet music 

trills, 
We shiver in the sunlight for a spell 
Still broods o'er Mictlan, — gloomy mouth of 
Hell! 

The narrow streamlet as of old runs on, 
But they who built these palaces are gone; 
They came, they went nor left one word 

behind, 
We search and dig but only questions find. 

The air is chill with voices of the dead, 
But not a word we catch of all they said; — 
That slant-eyed, squat-hipped folk of ancient 

day, 
Long since returned to primal dust and clay. 

We bow our heads to pass the temple door 
Where the plumed high-priest strode erect 

before; 
Each monolith still fitted to its groove 
Which time noi* earthquake one hair's 

breadth could move. 

A pigmy race of men of mighty dreams 
Reared these quaint carven walls, these pon- 
derous beams, 
Wrought patiently in tireless feeble strength 

(fifty-nine) 



The Call of Californi 



Till the huge capstone lay in place at length, 
Showing through all the centuries it should 

last 
How here some nameless Indian Angelo 

passed. 

* * * 

Glad that we came, we gladly turn away 
Back to the wholesome breath of living day; 
The long whip cracks, the creaking coach 

appears 
To bear us from these ghosts of weird, wan 

years. 



^ 



In the Cathedral Towers 
at Dawn 

^T'n the cathedral towers I stand at dawn, 
J^ The slumber breaking bells have but 

begun 
Their silver clashing and the dallying day 
Comes slowly traveling upward from the sea. 

Beneath me all the streets are half astir 
With pious life, — servants and served alike. 
Close hooded from the sharp insidious air 
Bend churchward, heavenward, by a weary 

way, 
Thorn set, tear wet, by sin and sorrow urged. 
Below there toil-worn mothers faint and wan 

(sixty) 



other Poems of the West 



Suckling at withered breasts their puny 

babes; 
And street-worn men with poverty their 

bride, 
Wake foodless in this city of the sun: 
While others, sons of Fortune's fickle smile, 
Who never toiled nor hungered, calmly sleep 
And over all the mercy of our God! 

Merrily ring the great Cathedral bells 
Over the life-sick multitude below; 
No voice for them calling from airy steeps 
Of heights celestial, bidding them return 
Out, onward, forward, upward to their God. 

O'erhead the beauty of the morning stars 
Down there the endless misery of man! 
The fresh winds blow from out the great salt 

sea 
And down from scarped and thunder riven 

peaks 
But not for them, nor any voice of morn 
Comes caroling from dewy meadow grass. 

Alone and poor, poor and alone they live 
Hopeless and songless in this bright sun- 
land. 
And die at last sad-faced and hollow-eyed 
Mantled in Misery. Brethren, pray for such. 



(sixty-one) 



The Call of California 

Titian s ''Entombment of 
Christ" 

(Tzintzuntzan) 

BN old grey church all full of other 
years. 
With knee-worn pavement stained by bitter 

tears; 
Sunlight without but graveyard gloom within 
The house where God forgives His chil- 
dren's sin. 

A charnel odor loads the still, cold air 
As if the spirits of the dead were there, 
Until awe-stricken by the half-lit gloom 
We shudder as though shut within a tomb! 

But suddenly a window opens wide, 
And afternoon pours in its golden tide 
Showing us there upon the old stone wall 
Of Titian's genius masterpiece of all. 

A pallid Christ all mutely tombward borne 
By faithful hearts so dumb and sorrow-torn, 
A few disciples there, by fear lafe driven — 
A Magdalene and Mother — anguish riven. 

O! pallid Christ, bruised by the Cross and 

Thorn, 
O ! faithful hearts, no longer may ye mourn, 
The dear Lord sleepeth, soon to wake again 
And set His kingdom in the hearts of men! 

(sixty-two) 



'jmrmm^-ii 



^fP^,- 



